


Big Mozzer Milkers

by bonelessbluemilk



Category: Blur (Band), Morrissey (Musician), The Smiths
Genre: Cheese, Vignette, transcendentalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:06:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27930481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonelessbluemilk/pseuds/bonelessbluemilk
Summary: "(This story) is a reminder that reality is stupid. Personally, I think this is the greatest, most enlightening piece of literature. Two musty old men can be portrayed however you choose. The concept of empathy is demolished. It makes you question morals as a whole. Why do we pretend to care when it affects nothing. Such a vulgar distasteful piece of art doesn't have to be accepted by society to exist. I think a lot can be learned from this"-Emma, my friend and co-creator of this abomination
Comments: 16
Kudos: 11





	Big Mozzer Milkers

**Author's Note:**

> (coming soon) Sketch and photography by @artittyemma on Instagram

The door to the darkened chamber creaked open and Morrissey's fuckugly self was pushed to the dusty concrete floor. The yellowed pillowcase was pulled off of his shrivled head, and his beady little eyes adjusted to the darkness. His captor stood above him, shrouded in milky darkness and a linty heather grey cardigan sweater that he probably stole off of a dying English teacher. The smell of vinegar, gouda, and unwashed pubes met his piglike nostrils as the unidentified man bore hs yellowed teeth in a horredous little smile. "Welcome to the dairy farm, Steven," he hissed in a wherever-the-fuck-part-of-England-he's-from accent.  
"Wh...Who are you?" Morrissey brayed, his voice quivering. He looked around the room- the windows were payneless, and had been boarded up with particle board, there was a row of stables that could have, at one point, held cows, and at least half a dozen metal buckets were strung up from the gabeled roof. With quite a bit of deliberation with his less-than-average intellect and total lack of common sense, he realized that he was in a barn somewhere.  
"That's not important", Alex said stinkily. He dropped a bucket in front of Morrissey, the clank of it hitting the hard floor making him wince. "Take off your shirt."  
"What?" the racist squawked, drawing his knees to his chest in protection. "Who are you? Why are you doing this? Are you going to shove that bucket up my arse?"  
"Trust me," Alex said, crossing his arms, "no one wants to see your flat man coochie." Morrissey wilted after his fantasy had been denied.  
"You see, I make cheese. I am the cheese maker. Some might even call me the cheese man," Alex began. "My cheese is unlike the cheese of any others. Making my cheese is a labour of love. My cheese is crafted by hand, made of my own blood, sweat, and other fluids. To me, cheese is not just a foodstuff. Cheese is an art, and I am the only cheese maker to refine it. Cheese-"  
"Alright, get on with it," Morrissey broke in, growing impatient. "Cheese doesn't even sound like a word anymore."  
Alex wiped his forehead, even the idea of cheese getting him hot and bothered. "Right then. My apologies. You see, I came to a discovery many a moon ago. Where does milk come from?"  
Morrissey cocked his eyebrow. "What is this, a game now?" he melodramaed. "Milk comes from cows."  
Alex nodded. "You know, you're brighter than I've been told you were. Many may say that you're right, but I know better. Much better. Cow's milk is made for other cows, yes?"  
"I guess?"  
"And goat's milk is made for other goats."  
"I don't see where you're going with this."  
"Things taste best for those they are made for, correct?"  
"I don't even know why you chose me for this. I'm a VE-"  
"Hold on a second, my saggy friend," Alex interrupted, cutting off Morrissey's ejaculation. "The secret to my cheese- the Alex James cheese, best in the world- is that I do not use cow's milk, nor goat's milk. I use sweet, fresh, creamy MUMMY'S MILK, fresh from the thicc titty."  
"WHAT" Morrissey brayed for the second time that day. Alex continued, a hungry glint in his crusty eye. "HUMAN MILK. The finest in all the land. Only the creamiest tig ol' biddies. It cures and churns with my special array of secret ingredients into the finest cheese money can buy. Gorgonzola, Wensleydale, Bleu, Brie... It's my life's work," he explained in a rattish fashion. "But, you see, there aren't many donors for my decadent product. My wife refuses to come within forty feet of me, and my own knockers wilted many months ago. I was lost, my enterprise in shambles. That is, until is saw YOUR glorious milkers. They pale in comparison to any cream-dripping honker I've seen in all my years as a famous rock star- which has been, like, five boobs. Since then, I've made it my goal to get your ugly little tatas in here for all my cheesey, curdley needs. And here you are!"  
Morrissey shook his head. "You're insane. I would sic my lawyers on you if they hadn't abandoned my cause after I said I was a nazi!" he whined in a pissbabyish fashion.  
"Do you think I haven't seen those pictures of you fondling your little warcrimes of tibbies? You must get some sort of enjoyment out of it."  
"Works well for me," Morrissey shrugged. He did enjoy toying with his hideous udders, especially on stage in front of others.  
"Perfect," Alex nearly cummed in a tone that was supposed to be interpreted as seductive but would probably just put him on several watch lists had he been in public. "Bring those hairy honkers over here!"


End file.
